Constellations
by flecksofpoppy
Summary: Eric looks for some meaning in the sky. Shinigami Scribblings prompt was: "snow."


The stars are out tonight, sharp and bright in the dark sky.

Eric admires them with a small smile. It's much easier to see the sky from his position in one of the open spaces of Kew Gardens, and there's no one about to interrupt his thoughts. If he closes his eyes, he could almost imagine it's summer – memories of lazing about in the grass on his days off, warm evenings with kisses flavored by whiskey from a flask.

His hands are folded behind his head, and the snow crunches slightly as he stretches out his arm to trace the pattern of a constellation he recognizes. The tips of his gloved fingers just won't do, though, and he slips one off as the chill air bites at his skin. He touches the pale points of light with his fingertip, counting each corner.

There's light snow starting to fall again, blanketing the stiff grass and dead flower beds.

London in December is always chilly, but it's especially cold when the sky is clear.

"That's Taurus," he says conversationally to the woman lying beside him, a flirtatious tone in his voice, "though that's the only one I know. Makes me sound a bit of pillock, eh?"

There's no answer, and he just shrugs slightly. She's not the kind of company that belongs in sun-dappled meadows or lazy summer nights.

The smell of snow, wood smoke, and dirt pervade the crisp air, and Eric continues to stare up, looking for more shapes.

Alan told him once that no one ever takes the time to really look around, see what's happening above or below them, so Eric decided some time ago that would pay attention to the smaller things that he never noticed – constellations, for one.

But nothing else seems to present itself in the sky now; it's just a maze of indistinct, faraway lights.

"I'm sorry I couldn't show you a better time," he continues, apologizing to his date. "That party was rather rowdy, and although I like a good time as much as the next..."

He stops talking with a sigh, and rolls onto his side to idly slide a few fingers of his ungloved hand idly through the stiff, frozen grass, watching it melt from each individual blade.

"I'm sorry to steal you away," he says softly, his voice emerging as white puffs in the still winter night.

Off in the distance, he can hear voices calling through the dark trees. The taste of roasted chestnuts and cherry liqueur from the party are still thick on his tongue; if tears had a taste, it would be this.

"Good night," he says, pulling himself upright and brushing the snow off his jacket. The woman's friends are closer now. They'll find her soon enough, and he can tell from the increasingly urgent tone of their voices as they call her name that the seriousness of her absence is just starting to become apparent. They're drunk and merrymaking during another festive Christmas in London, but not for long.

Ignorance is bliss, at least for a little while.

Eric looks down at her where she's laid out against the snow. The motions from where she had struggled, arms flailing about, have made what look like angel wings around her. The snow is streaked red with blood; startlingly vivid, stunning in the sheer violence.

Her face is as pale and still as the snow, and Eric has learned to close their eyes now that he's done this a few dozen times now. There's something about the glassiness of dead human eyes that he can't tolerate when he's done more than simply reap their souls.

There's less blood this time, though. Soon, he'll be able to not spill a drop.

He turns and starts to walk away, the snow crunching under his feet; there's a strange silence in the park, but Eric is sure that the sound of his heart beating is really her soul rattling around in the cage of his ribs, screaming.

The voices grow closer, and he brushes the snow from his hair. It's melting and wet, cold, and the snowflakes have grown bigger, floating like petals in the deadened air.

The thumping of his heart sounds louder than his own footsteps, and he puts his glove back on before pressing his palm against his chest, trying to calm the angry beat.

Humankind sometimes says that souls turn into stars after death, and Eric feels an entire constellation twisting inside him, pinpricks of light that burn.

Each twist is an exquisite pain, a purposeful scalding, and he swallows down the acrid taste of chestnuts and liqueur, disappearing into the darkness of trees.


End file.
